


Out of Phase

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Gift Fic, Mystery, Self-rescuing damsel, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2278515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their research into the Number had hit a number of dead ends early on; he'd lived in a Tibetan monastery for years, and had spent his early life in a town best known as a notorious source for forged documents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Phase

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FaithDaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaithDaria/gifts), [paburke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paburke/gifts).



> Ah, the joys of limited POV. Expands a bit on canon from "Lovers' Walk" regarding werewolves.

AUDIO INTERCEPT: 917-XXX-XXXX  
PASSIVE CELL MONITOR

CONVERSATION ANALYSIS  
NLP RUNNING

"...sure it's the same guy, Gib? It's been what, fifteen years?"

"Trust me, I looked him up. Heard the girl call him 'Oz', so I grabbed a yearbook on my way out of town. Daniel Osbourne, the one that got away. I was hoping we'd cross paths again sometime so's I could finish the job without his little girlfriends there to protect him. Took long enough; but yeah, I'm sure...."

NAME RECOGNIZED:  
OSBOURNE, DANIEL B.

* * *

John frowned as the man with the moss green, messily spiked hair looked up toward his position for the third time that day. Once could have been an accident; twice coincidence, though John would have bet against it. Three times was unmistakably deliberate.

"Finch," he said, resting a fingertip against the Bluetooth in his ear, "I think we might have a problem."

"Define 'problem'," his partner replied, tense and a little abstracted over the connection.

Finch probably wasn't at his computer, then; doing some physical investigation himself, since the digital had failed. Their research into the Number had hit a number of dead ends early on; he'd lived in a Tibetan monastery for years, and before that had spent his early life in Sunnydale, a California town that had become a notorious source for forged documents since its collapse in 2003, when Daniel Osbourne would have been in his early twenties. The odds that his official history was genuine had been no better than even to begin with, and were worsening by the moment.

"Either our Number is much more skilled than his records let on, or he's better informed than he should be. He's looked right at me several times since I began observing him today."

"Coincidence, perhaps?" Finch suggested, distractedly. "You do somewhat stand out, Mr. Reese."

"And if I'd ever been close enough to force pair his phone, I might have dismissed it." People were supposed to notice the suit and forget the face. "But I have yet to make it within a dozen yards of him."

"You haven't paired his phone?" Finch asked sharply, suddenly sounding much more present. "But you've been following him for hours."

"Exactly," John replied... then raised an eyebrow as the guy below glanced at him again, and deliberately jerked his chin toward an alleyway. Which he then turned to walk down. "Although... I may be about to get the opportunity; he just invited me to join him."

An audible intake of breath sounded over the line. "I would advise caution if you do take him up on that offer; he seems to have packed a number of rather sturdy chains and shackles for this trip."

John's eyebrows shot up at the observation. The possible-- now seeming likely-- perpetrator was neither tall, nor particularly well-muscled; John had around ten inches on Osbourne, and probably a third again his weight. "Compensating for something, perhaps?" he mused.

"I would not presume to speculate," Finch replied, dryly.

A smile tugged at the corner of John's mouth. "I'll try the direct route, then; time for Detective Stills to make an appearance. If you find fingerprints, get them to Carter-- they'll probably show up in connection to at least one unsolved crime, if not several. A man doesn't travel with that kind of paraphernalia unless he's used it before."

"I'll take your word for it. Do be careful, Mr. Reese."

He reached up to toggle the Bluetooth again, then packed away his camera and made his way down to the street below.

* * *

John approached the alleyway with gun in hand, held surreptitiously behind a fold of his coat. Under the circumstances he'd thought it wise to be prepared, but there was a chance that Osbourne was simply a man with an unusual history under threat from his past, much as John had been tracked by the CIA. Not likely, given the contents of his luggage, but not impossible.

Osbourne was waiting for him, tucked back far enough from the street not to attract attention from random passersby, but making no effort to shield himself behind one of the many trash bins or the stack of pallets abutting a nearby loading bay door. He seemed almost unnaturally calm, arms crossed over his open button-front shirt, partially obscuring a worn band logo on the tee shirt underneath.

Both hands were visible; neither contained a weapon, and John couldn't see any suspicious bulges or loose fabric in _his_ clothes. "Daniel Osbourne?" he said warily, tucking his weapon surreptitiously away. It didn't look like he'd need it; if the situation deteriorated enough for unarmed violence he'd still have mass and training on his side. 

Osbourne raised an eyebrow, but didn't otherwise react. "It's Oz. Who're you?"

John produced the stolen badge, as smoothly as if that had been the reason he'd reached into his coat in the first place. "My name is Detective Stills. Your name has come up in connection to a possible pending violent crime. I'd like to talk with you about that."

If anything, Osbourne's expression grew more disdainful at John's statement. "I'm sure you would, _Officer_. Points for originality, though."

John frowned. The man's reaction was more defensive than John would have expected from a violent perpetrator-- but it definitely wasn't the response of an innocent civilian. "Pardon?"

Osbourne sighed. "You don't reek like a hunter, and you're not really the Initiative type; but I do smell gun oil and blood. Mercenary?"

"It's detective, not officer," John parried blandly. He resisted the urge to sniff; the most recent blood he'd encountered was a simple split knuckle from the previous day's Number, and he couldn't feel any appreciable breeze that might carry his scent to the other man. Osbourne had to be guessing-- though that did provide yet another interesting data point. "Are you saying you've received threats...?"

Osbourne snorted, ignoring the question. "Council, maybe? Though you don't sound British."

John's frown deepened. "Mr. Osbourne...."

"It _is_ a little weird that you're following me around on the _new_ moon, though. Finally heard about Tibet? Or are you hoping to capture now and skin me later?"

Had Osbourne encountered a culture in his travels that still practiced some type of sacrifice linked to the lunar cycle? Religious extremists? But then, why carry heavy restraints in his luggage? 

"My job is to _protect_ people. Not skin them. Do you have any information on who might be behind such threats?" he tried again.

"Seriously?" Osbourne's frown of incomprehension echoed John's. "Look, 'Detective'...."

Whatever he might have been about to say, John never heard it; he was distracted by a sharp stabbing sensation in his left shoulderblade. He glanced back to see what looked like a tranquilizer dart sticking out of the material of his jacket, and instinctively raised a hand to tap his Bluetooth again as he turned. How had someone snuck up on _him_? He'd been fixated on tracking Osbourne-- had someone else been tracking them both from further out, or did Osbourne have a partner?

The questions slowed like treacle in his mind as he turned... and then stopped altogether as he collapsed, hand suddenly becoming too heavy to lift before it had even reached his ear. Finch was not going to be pleased, he thought faintly, catching one blurry glimpse of a man-shaped shadow crouching in _his_ previous position before the lights went out.

* * *

Some indefinite amount of time later, John blinked his aching eyes open in a quiet, unfamiliar place. There was softness under his back, a wooly sensation between his ears, and the dim quality of the lighting coming in through the floor to ceiling windows-- windows?-- suggested he'd lost a few hours. 

"Finch?" John blurted, struggling to wake amid a rush of adrenaline.

"Oz," the Number reminded him, leaning over John's prone form-- on the floor?-- with a much more open expression. The shapes of desks loomed behind him; they seemed to be in some sort of office, one that had been closed for the evening. "You okay? Those things pack a lot of punch. Surprised you're up already."

" _Mr. Reese?_ " Finch's voice replied at the same time over the Bluetooth. " _It's been some time since your last communication. What are your circumstances?_ "

He sounded annoyed, but John could hear a note of worry in it. "Still in one piece," he answered them both, then struggled to sit up, wincing at the ache in his muscles. "That was a tranquilizer dart. You were serious about someone wanting to skin you."

"Deadly," Osbourne replied, with a wry, unamused smile.

" _Skin him?_ " Finch sounded taken aback. " _For what possible reason?_ "

Osbourne shrugged in reply before John could echo the question, gesturing toward his ear. "Trophy, probably. Or black market sales. Who's the voice?"

Enhanced sense of smell, now hearing; probably sight, too, given the ease with which he'd caught John trailing him. Likely able to detect lies, then. "My partner," he temporized. "He comes up with the information, I do the legwork."

"Huh."

" _Mr. Reese!_ "

"He can hear you, Finch," John pointed out. "He didn't leave me in the alley, and he didn't take my phone, either."

"Didn't even occur to me, actually." Ozbourne shrugged. "Been awhile since I carried one regularly. What kind of information are we talking about?"

Finch's tone grew more crisp, half warning and half annoyance. " _Speaking of alleys; when you disappeared, I asked Detective Fusco to follow the phone's GPS to your location._ "

"The kind that often leads to bodies," John said, then switched focus. "How long?"

" _He should be there in a few minutes; it took some time for him to leave his current case._ "

"Then you've got a few minutes before we have company," he informed Osbourne. "If there's a black market for skinning people.... how frequent is this sort of attack?"

"Frequent enough," Osbourne replied briefly. "I'm... known, in certain circles. More here than Tibet. Probably because of the Initiative."

"You mentioned the Initiative earlier?" John followed the offered thread.

"If you haven't heard of it already, I'm not sure I should say," Osbourne shrugged. "Ex-military, I'm guessing; but wrong age bracket. Let's just say I'm part of a... hunted minority... and leave it at that. They're not behind this; but they did put my name out there, once."

John eyed him again; pale skin, slight but not overly below average stature, no notable features. But heritage wasn't always obvious. And given his abilities... it might be an aftermarket addition, so to speak, rather than genetics; something he'd never talk about, any more than John would discuss his work for the CIA. But that didn't explain his sudden certainty that the Initiative was _not_ involved, given his original accusations. Or the chains and shackles.

He mentioned the latter, and watched in amusement as Osbourne finally showed a reaction, wincing in embarrassment. "Not to reward the obvious breaking and entering... let's just say, I'm sort of a traveling teacher? For people with, uh, similar... tastes? I'd prefer not to elaborate."

John was reminded of Finch refusing to speculate, and allowed the evasion with a smirk. He stretched a little more, working the soreness out of his muscles, then carefully stood up. "As long as it has nothing to do with today's attack. I take it they were shooting at you?"

"Probably both of us; ducked another dart after you went down. But they expected me to be an easy mark this time of the month. I got us out of there, then called my contact in the city." Osbourne wandered toward the windows, glancing out at the evening cityscape. They were one tall floor, or two short ones, above the street; it wasn't overly busy, but there was still some traffic flow, including the flash of a police car's bubble light pulling up below. "I appreciate the heads up, Mister... Reese, was it? They might've caught me unaware if I hadn't spotted you first. But by the time your friend gets here, the problem should be taken care of."

"Mr. Osbourne...."

Osbourne smiled at him. "Good luck." Then he crouched, and... there was some sort of brownish blur that John's eyes had difficulty deciphering, followed by a crash of glass as the window burst outward.

A knock started up on the door to the office just as the glass finished settling. "NYPD! Open up!"

John missed the days of simple to solve Numbers. He sighed, then went to let Fusco in.

* * *

By the time they reached Osbourne's hotel room again, it was empty, and his information had been scrubbed from its computers. Neither the dart that had felled John or the second one Osbourne said had been fired were anywhere to be found. Carter's search on Osbourne's fingerprints turned up only a blacked-out report from a covert Army operation in Sunnydale, the original of which had been destroyed when the city collapsed. He didn't have a car to track; they had no information about the associate he'd mentioned; and no other related assaults had been reported.

John arrived in the Library two mornings after the incident, hoping that Osbourne had finally used a credit card somewhere Finch could track him. But though Finch was already at his computers, he didn't have that air of anticipation of the hunt. He seemed... disturbed.

"News on Osbourne?" he asked, as he set a paper cup of tea on the table by Finch's keyboard.

Finch started, then looked up at him with a frown. "Yes and no."

"Not him, but... someone connected?" John guessed.

Finch nodded. "A man turned up in front of the eighth precinct this morning. One Gilbert Cain, shackled, chained, and under the influence of a tranquilizer matching that in the darts also found on his person. They were wrapped with a note addressed to Detective Fusco."

Quick work for Osbourne's contact... and another nod to John. "What did the note say?"

"That the detective should check the DNA of the teeth in the rather macabre necklace he was wearing against the missing persons database. They appeared to be animal teeth at first glance; it would likely have been overlooked, otherwise."

Skins for sales; teeth for trophies. He hoped the hunter was new to New York, or he'd have words for Finch about the Machine's priorities. "Other victims?"

"Detective Carter reports that they have three matches already, scattered across the country. There'll undoubtedly be more; it was a sizeable necklace."

"Any other evidence that this was Osbourne's hunter?"

"Considering the other news...." Finch paused at that, dithering uncharacteristically before continuing. "I finally traced Mr. Osbourne's reference to the 'Initiative' to its probable source. It was a black operation, of the sort with which we're both familiar, operating out of the Sunnydale Army base. But its mandate was... somewhat unusual."

Coming from Finch, that was saying something. "More unusual than building an artificial intelligence to predict acts of terror?"

"Try experimenting on vampires, demons, and werewolves," Finch replied, dryly.

Werewolves? John flashed back to several of the stranger things about the case: Osbourne's advanced perceptions; his mention of the moon's phase; the contempt that the shooter had thought he'd be vulnerable; the 'similar tastes'; his glass-breaking exit; the fact that the teeth in the hunter's necklace had an animal appearance but human DNA. A man with an unusual history, indeed.

John had spent a long time as one of the things that went bump in the night; he'd seen much that others would dismiss over the course of those years. At least Osbourne appeared to have some self-restraint. That had not always been his experience.

"Ah," John said. Then he cleared his throat. "So... we have a new Number?"

Finch paused for a moment, studying his face; then nodded, looking relieved.

One of these days, they'd have to follow up on that conversation... along with everything else they'd left unsaid. But today was apparently not that day.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Finch said, gesturing toward the pane of glass they used as a display board. The photo of an attractive young woman took center stage, taped next to a sheet listing a variety of assault charges.

"Meet Violet Marten. She's also new to the city...."

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "The Machine gives them Daniel Osbourne's number." (for faithburke)


End file.
